SALFORD MURDERS: The Private Investigator Gus Keane Trilogy

by Bud Craig

  “It’s certainly looking lovely,” said Pam.

  “Gardening was the great love of his life – after Elvis of course.”

  Pam and I smiled. I thought of what Marti had said about Bill’s women and wondered where they would come in the pecking order.

  “How’s your mam,” I asked.

  Cal puffed out her cheeks.

  “OK, I suppose,” she said. “A bit flaky, you know. She might be better if things weren’t still a bit up in the air.”

  I drank more wine and wondered what she meant.

  “I suppose you know that Askey character is still on the run,” said Cal.

  Pam nodded though this was news to me.

  “All this uncertainty doesn’t exactly help,” added Cal.

  “They’ll get him, don’t worry,” I said, knowing how stupid the average criminal was.

  “I do hope so,” Cal said, “at least the police are confident he did it so once they find him…”

  We stood in silence for a while.

  “Anyway,” said Cal. “We should be celebrating Dad’s life. I hope you’re hungry. Mum’s prepared mountains of food. Part of keeping busy therapy – a bit obsessive actually.”

  We stood in awkward silence for a moment.

  “I’d better go and help her,” said Cal as she left us to it.

  A few minutes later I was walking towards the house in search of the toilet. I was thinking of how my life had changed since I had first met Pam Agnew. Your life’s changed in the past week and a half, I reminded myself. Marti and I were now an item. GRK Investigations was set up but there hadn’t been time for Marti to give me any work. I was in no hurry. I was too busy enjoying myself. I’d even fitted in a day’s walking with Danny before he had to go back to Brighton. My son being so far away was the only downside I could think of.

  I got to the back door of the house that led into the kitchen. I was just about to turn the handle when I made out Jean Copelaw’s voice. I thought back to the scene at the graveside earlier. It had been hard to decide whether the lines etched on her face were a sign of grief or just the everyday misery that always seemed to accompany her.

  “At least that bitch has had the decency to stay away,” she said.

  “What did you expect?’

  It took a few seconds to realise the second voice was Cal’s.

  “I wouldn’t have put it past her to turn up all sweetness and light, saying how sorry she was.”

  I stood still, my hand on the door handle. Going inside was out of the question but what else could I do?

  “I’m sure you’d have coped,” said Cal.

  “I don’t suppose you’d have been much help.”

  The sigh that followed spoke volumes.

  “How many more times? I don’t want to get involved in this shit. I don’t even want to be here.”

  “Charming.”

  “I’ve turned up, haven’t I,” hissed Cal, “done my duty.”

  “For a change.”

  “Listen Mummy, I’ll play the part of the grieving daughter for today. Tomorrow I’m going home to get on with my life.”

  Deciding I had heard more than enough, I turned away, and walked about twenty yards away from the house and went back. Rattling the handle as hard as I could, I opened the door quickly and went in. The two women were taking cling film off plates of sandwiches. They turned to look at me as I smiled and said hello. I had expressed condolences earlier so couldn’t think what to say to Jean. Cal came to the rescue and told me the way to the toilet.

  Arriving back where I’d come from, I saw Pam closeted with a smiling Rob from Reliable.com. He was probably trying to sell her insurance or singing the praises of his children. I may as well circulate. I spent half an hour saying hello to a couple of people from work before I noticed Don sitting alone with a glass of water. I sat in the chair next to him and asked him how things were going.

  “OK,” he shrugged. “You know I’ve been given Bill’s job.”

  I nodded.

  “I’m beginning to wish I’d said no,” he sighed. “Short staffed; an increase in referrals; everything needing to be done yesterday. And that’s before the cuts begin to bite.”

  It wouldn’t help to tell him it had always been like this or that it didn’t affect me any more. I said nothing.

  “Now Helen wants us to start saving to put the kids through private school.”

  Like I wanted to know. He went on with his tale of woe.

  “Save, I said. What with?”

  I knew his children were pre-school, but that was about it. He only referred to them as a chore. Enjoying life wasn’t a priority for Don.

  “And there’s all the fall out from Bill’s death. Everybody’s been affected.”

  “I can imagine.”

  He looked into the distance for a second and sipped from his glass.

  “I feel bad because the last time I saw him wasn’t exactly pleasant.”

  “How come?”

  I recalled the scene on the morning of Bill’s death when Karen and I watched Don come out of Bill’s office.

  “Well,” he said, looking round furtively, “I was thinking of applying for a job in Bolton.”

  “And?”

  “He said he couldn’t give me a good reference.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m afraid I blew my top.”

  He averted his eyes for a second.

  “I promised myself I’d apologize on Monday morning.”

  He shook his head.

  “You know, try and talk it through reasonably and see if he’d change his mind.”

  We were interrupted by the voice of Cal from the other end of the garden. She had a guitar round her neck.

  “If I could just have your attention for a moment,” she began, “I’m sure you realise that Mum and I came a poor second to the King of Rock’n’roll in Dad’s affection.”

  Polite laughter greeted this. I thought of the expression about many a true word being spoken in jest.

  “I thought I’d sing an Elvis song as my personal farewell to Dad.”

  We sat through Cal’s rendition of Loving You. Was I embarrassed by the obvious hypocrisy or was I just embarrassed? When the applause died down, Don looked at his watch.

  “I need to get back soon,” he said. “Time and tide and social work wait for no man. If you’re ready to go, I can give you a lift.”

  For the first few minutes of the journey back to Ordsall, conversation didn’t exactly flow. Silence built up as Don looked around at the traffic as though surprised that there were other cars on the road. He finally spoke as we approached the slip road to the M602.

  “Gus,” he said, “I’m in a position to offer you some work if you’re interested.”

  In a position to? Pompous pillock.

  “Depends what it is.”

  “Remember the family you visited on the day Bill died,” he said, “the little baby.”

  “Rebecca,” I said, “I remember her well. Poor little mite. What’s happening with her?”

  “The injuries were definitely physical abuse. She’s in foster care and we’re going for care proceedings.”

  “Where do I come in?’

  He passed a lorry before continuing.

  “Well, Karen was supposed to take it over. I don’t know if you know but she’s on long term sick.”

  “Oh? What’s the problem?”

  Don shrugged.

  “Stress, depression or something.”

  I detected a distinct lack of sympathy. I couldn’t help thinking about him trying to chat up Karen. It wasn’t until I started in social work that I realised how many affairs start at work. I wondered if Don had tried it on with anybody else. Or if he had been any more successful.

  “And you want me to take it on?”

  He nodded. We travelled on in silence for a few seconds. Was this too soon to be going back to work? It would at least save me the bother of looking for it. If I said no, when would I get t
he chance to earn a bit of extra money? Don wouldn’t ask if he weren’t keen so I sensed my bargaining position was strong. I said I’d consider it on a self-employed basis.

  “Well, we’ve got a private solicitor in – two of ours are on maternity leave at the same time – so why not a private social worker?”

  “And as long as it’s only a couple of days a week maximum,” I added.

  “We can’t afford to pay you for any more than that.”

  He sounded defeated and downtrodden. How long before he succumbed to the effects of the thankless task he was lumbered with? Stress had definitely been one of the factors in my stroke.

  “And just for this one case,” I insisted.

  “Fine. I could only pay you twenty-five pounds an hour,” he said with an air of regret.

  Or more than I’ve ever earned before.

  “OK,” I said, trying to sound reluctant.

  “The court will be impressed with an experienced practitioner like you. You don’t need me to tell you it’s a high risk case.”

  “Certainly is.”

  “And it means the solicitor stops giving me grief.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Marti Pym. She says she knows you. She’s heard you’re a good worker. Which you are of course.”

  Compliments from Don Bird and the chance to work with Marti. I struggled to keep a grin from my face.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Two days later I got off the tram at Timperley at quarter to seven. I was about to text Marti to say I was nearly there when my phone rang.

  “Hiya, Gus, it’s Tanya.”

  Now what did she want?

  “I wanted to ask you something, right?”

  I walked along the pavement a little way before stopping. It still felt weird talking on the phone while walking. Perhaps I was just an old git at heart.

  “Go ahead.”

  “It’s about Mick Askey…”

  Great. Just what I needed.

  “Is it right he’s in clink?”

  “Yeah.”

  I had no need to plead confidentiality this time. It had been reported in the paper in an article about the size of a postage stamp. Still, it was only a social worker he’d killed.

  “Any chance of him getting out?”

  I thought for a few seconds, scratching my forearm.

  “Well, the case won’t come to trial for months so he’ll be in till then if not longer.”

  “Great.”

  “And if he’s found guilty he’ll be away a long time.”

  “I could move back into my house, couldn’t I, know what I mean? I never did get round to giving the keys in.”

  “I suppose you could,” I said. “Anyway, Tanya, I’ve got to be off.”

  “Ok. See you then. Ta ra.”

  With that I ended the call, texted Marti and went on my way. Timperley was just a few stops from Salford Quays but until Marti and I had got together I couldn’t remember having been there before. I thought of it as being in Cheshire – and therefore a bit posh – and knew from Rachel that the Stone Roses started there. On my first visit I’d been disappointed not to see Ian Brown swaggering down the street.

  I got to the cul-de-sac where Marti lived, admiring the terrace of Georgian town houses in the evening sunlight. Marti stood at her door in blue jeans with turn-ups and a pink top, smiling and waving. She really did look good in that outfit, I thought, but she could wear anything. Her Mercedes was parked outside as usual. A posh car and a house worth about half a million, I’d been in the wrong job all these years. She gave me a smile, a hug and a kiss when I got to the doorway, followed by a ‘good to see you’. I could get used to this, no bother. Taking out my phone, I got her to pose seductively on the doorstep and took a couple of photos. There were worse ways to spend a Thursday evening, I thought. Our plan was to go for a curry at a restaurant a ten-minute walk away. We were both hungry so we left straightaway.

  “I hear we’ll be working together,” I said.

  I looked down at her red-painted toenails peeping out of her sandals, as we strolled along.

  “Yeah, brilliant isn’t it,” she smiled. “I didn’t think Don would get round to doing anything about it. The poor guy doesn’t know whether he’s coming or going.”

  A group of teenagers rushed past outside Currys, laughing at nothing. I thought of the joys of youth. Then I looked at Marti and told myself you don’t have to be young to enjoy life.

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “So, when do you start?”

  She had to shout as a bus went by.

  “The sooner the better as far as I’m concerned.”

  “I’m going into the office on Monday morning,” I explained. “Just to read the file, talk to a few people, arrange home visits.”

  “Right. And we’ll have to have several long planning meetings to prepare for court. In a relaxed environment.”

  “Relaxed yet completely professional, I’m sure,” I said.

  “Oh, completely. Of course it might be better to work from home sometimes.”

  We grinned at one another and she squeezed my hand.

  “Anyway, I’ve got something else to tell you.”

  She looked at me, taking a deep breath and swallowing hard.

  “It’s about Mick Askey.”

  I looked expectantly at her.

  “What about him?”

  She walked on half a dozen paces before explaining.

  “The police finally caught up with him this morning.”

  “Good.”

  “He was arrested and charged with Bill Copelaw’s murder.”

  “Predictable.”

  She looked away for a few seconds.

  “I’m gonna be representing him.”

  “How come?”

  “Well, I was contacted at half nine to attend a PACE interview. I was on call, you know, duty solicitor.”

  “Right.”

  “When it was over Askey decided he wanted me to be his solicitor.”

  I didn’t know what I was supposed to say. Marti went on.

  “You don’t mind, do you?”

  I shrugged. “Why should I mind?”

  She let out a sigh.

  “I thought you’d be, you know, annoyed. In the circumstances.”

  “Not really.”

  “People always ask me how I can defend these monsters.”

  “You seem to forget I’m a fully paid up wishy-washy liberal.”

  “True, but…”

  “Anyway, I know how these things work,” I said, “you have to take him on regardless of how you feel.”

  She nodded as I thought for a moment.

  “Even toe rags like Askey deserve a fair trial,” I went on. “I’m sure you’ll do a good job for him. It sounds a bit of a lost cause though.”

  “Probably. His best hope is to plead guilty to manslaughter.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Bill suffered from angina: we could argue the blow on the head brought on a heart attack.”

  “I suppose so,” I said, “but he’s still dead.”

  We turned left by the Co-operative funeral parlour.

  “Askey denies point blank he was responsible for Bill’s death. He admits he was in Bill’s office – he could hardly deny it – and had a bit of a row with him.”

  “And?”

  “Well, he says Bill was alive when he left.”

  “Then who killed him?”

  “Askey claims he passed a man going into the building as he was on his way out of Ordsall Tower.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Don’t be cynical.”

  “Well, it’s a bit convenient.”

  She shrugged.

  “The guy Askey saw was wearing a leather jacket.”

  “Oh, well, that clinches it.”

  She looked at me and smiled.

  “I know it sounds unlikely but I do have a slight doubt he actually did it.”

  “You must be joking.”
>
  “Well, there were no fingerprints on the murder weapon – the football trophy.”

  “He wiped them off.”

  “That’s a logical deduction,” she said, “but think about it. This is Askey we’re talking about. His brain is addled by years of alcoholic excess. Is he going to think clearly enough to worry about forensic evidence?”

  “I don’t really know. I’m just glad it’s not my problem.”

  We walked on for a while enjoying the sunshine before Marti spoke again.

  “Gus, I’ve been thinking…”

  “Oh, no,” I put in, “My dad has always warned me about women who say, ‘I’ve been thinking…’”

  “No, listen. When I realised you would be going back to Social Services and I was representing Mick Askey, I had a brilliant idea.”

  That didn’t sound too good.

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” I smiled. “I swore I’d never again get involved with a woman who has ideas…”

  She chuckled.

  “I can see you’re interested so I’ll tell you all about it.”

  I tried to pay attention.

  “When you go back into the office, you’ll be talking to your colleagues, won’t you?”

  “Yeah,” I said, sounding puzzled because I was.

  “You know, chatting of this and that.”

  “A certain amount of social intercourse is expected,” I said.

  She grinned, leaning towards me and kissing me on the cheek.

  “As long as it’s only social,” she whispered in my ear.

  I could definitely get used to this. Or was I too old for this sort of thing? And in the street as well. I didn’t feel too old.

  “The murder will still be on their minds so it will seem quite normal for you to discuss it with them.”

  “I suppose so,” I said hesitantly. “What exactly are you getting at?”

  “It’s a golden opportunity for you, with your Private Investigator hat on, to look into the murder.”

  “I won’t have time.”

  “Course you will. You can do it while you’re at work.”

  “I don’t fancy cross-examining the people at work.”

  “It’s not cross-examining. They don’t need to know what you’re doing.”

  “So, I’m working undercover?”

  I couldn’t keep the scepticism out of my voice.